Summer Of Sam
by Princess Twilite
Summary: She tasted like Root beer and Chap Stick... (Lilah/F Slash; Apocalypse Now-ish)


Title: Summer of Sam 1/1  
  
Author: Princess Twilite (princesstwilite2@aol.com)  
  
Rating: PG-13 for implied sexual situations  
  
Summary: Her lips tasted like root beer and Chap Stick.  
  
Disclaimer: Lilah and the end of the world? Not mine. Spoilers: Apocalypse Now-ish. Season Four.  
  
Distribution: List archives; anyone else that wants it can have it.  
  
Pairing: Slight Lilah/other slash.  
  
Website: http://thatvisionthing.org/whip  
  
A/N: A short experiment in point of views.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Summer Of Sam 1/1  
  
Fire glazes your window, leaking down the glass like rain water, melting through to you.  
  
You shiver, as if the falling flames were cold, and wrap your arms around your own ribcage. Outside your office door, there is commotion. Organized chaos. People are planning for the end, kissing their children and their bibles, preparing to die. Those with things to regret, were on their knees as though each second would take away a year of things done wrong.  
  
You don't kneel for any reason, surely not this.  
  
The end of the world? Been there before.  
  
Not quite this close, you admit.  
  
The sky is made of fire, clouds circling as though around a magnet. Like water, it moves, breathes. You think you've seen this before, in Ghostbusters. Pure evil was so unoriginal.  
  
Still -  
  
You stare at it, struck by the beauty death brings with it.  
  
No wonder evil sucked you in, you think. Nice paycheck, nice clothes, and you just might make it ALL the way to the top.  
  
Or might have, if time was not so short and prepared to stop.  
  
The flames remind you of something, something you'd forgotten to let matter.  
  
You take a deep breath, so deep it hurts your lungs and remember that long ago day when you laid with your best friend Samantha on the lawn.  
  
The grass was dewed with the late hour, early morning but still night. You had put out a blanket, but the grass tickled your short covered thighs anyway. Samantha had been tall and kinda big, developing breasts before everyone else and hiding them behind her text book while the boys pointed and even tried to grab a few times.  
  
You'd knocked a few boys unconscious for that very action.  
  
Mother hadn't liked that very much.  
  
You talked with Samantha, while you both watched the southern sky, waiting for the solar storm to begin. Samantha wore one of those jumpers, the type that moved higher up her thighs every time she moved and you found yourself thinking things about things about Samantha. It all circled back to one things and you were almost surprised at yourself.  
  
But you couldn't be really, because you knew who you were and would be, even if no one else would face it.  
  
You never called her Sam. She hated that nickname. She thought people were lazy if they couldn't be bothered to say her full name.  
  
Then the storm started and you had to stop looking at her and the way there was a shadow between her breasts when there wasn't any between yours.  
  
The shooting stars burst across the sky, like balls of flame, melting the atmosphere.  
  
You looked over once and found Samantha staring at the sky with her mouth open and her face lit up like she was watching fireworks instead of stars.  
  
Not quite sure why, but yes you were, you leaned to the side and kissed her. She was shocked of course, but she didn't stop you, just shivered when your dry lips pressed over hers and moved them slowly, like you were nervous, apart.  
  
Her lips tasted like root beer and Chap Stick and something inside of you had hummed, vibrated as you slid your tongue further inside, past the waxy boundaries and into the place you'd never even thought to imagine.  
  
Samantha's tongue was warm and wet and even scary, but you kissed her as hard as she would let you and made sure you got real close too, close enough to smell her when she started to get aroused.  
  
You were both sixteen, big girls, no one was gonna get hurt, right?  
  
You put one hand down on the blanket, sinking it into the grass and getting your hand damp. The other you moved up her stomach and past the baby fat, toward those big breasts that you had always been so jealous of. Now one sat in your palm, fat and round and you weren't so jealous now as you were thinking about what color the nipple would be. The color of Root beer maybe?  
  
Samantha shivered, groaned, and you smiled against her mouth.  
  
You didn't even realize your own motives, not yet, not at the start of the secret, never to be mentioned, relationship.  
  
No, you didn't know quite yet.  
  
You were only kissing her to see if you could get a girl to fall in love with you as well.  
  
You succeeded. All summer long, you played her hard and fast, stealing her breath and her reserve until all she could see was you, and not even the night sky.  
  
There was something about owning someone, heart and soul, something seductive like the tune of the Beatles blasting from a radio while you licked an ice cream cone in the hot, summer sun.  
  
You told her you cared, that you'd be with her forever. That you'd be together past death and past everyone's disapproving glares. Not that anyone knew, she was so frightened, and you knew that people wouldn't accept it - so you kept it quiet, like a back alley affair.  
  
The kinda dirty that could make you feel good about yourself.  
  
You led her to believe that you loved her. Told her: I love you, Samantha.  
  
And then you dropped her like a flattened basketball when school began again.  
  
She cried, pleaded, and you liked it.  
  
You walked by her in the hall, looked into her vulnerable brown eyes and called her: "Sam."  
  
You watched her hate you and love you. It felt too good, the order of that.  
  
The fact that she needed you, the fact that she would still tremble if you cornered her in the girls locker room and stroked her chestnut hair back from her face. If you whispered things into her ear, about things you had done to her and remembered, she would get flushed and start panting.  
  
Power. Control. You ate it up.  
  
You were your mother's precocious child.  
  
Now the falling flames make you think of her, of Samantha.  
  
You think it might be nice to give her a call, but you don't even really consider picking up the phone. You used her and liked it. There was no excuse and to be truthful, you don't feel all that bad about it.  
  
But you'd like to talk to someone who once loved you before you die.  
  
And as the sky burns before you in your box seat of hell, you realize that there's no one like that around. Basic rules of survival: never be near anyone that can reach inside you and pluck out your heart with tweezers while saying I love you, I love you, I love you.  
  
Your stomach hurts with impending doom, but only with fear. There is nothing else to feel. Okay, maybe you're a little pissed off. After all, you shook hands with the metaphorical devil to make sure this didn't happen. You had big plans for this world and none of them included someone else ruling it.  
  
Fucking beasts, rising from the fucking earth like they fucking owned it.  
  
Had THEY been slaving over the desk for the past ten years, plotting, stomping on people's fingers and cutting off people's heads? No, not really.  
  
You're fucking angry and with good reason.  
  
But it's only a waste of that precious energy.  
  
It's no use now, the world is nearly over and you don't really care about anything, not even boy-toy Wesley and his penis, enough to give a damn. You like to think you control him but you've never been very good at lying to yourself.  
  
You stare through the window and hug yourself tighter; thinking how Sam might be staring at the falling flames right now, might whisper your name and think of shooting stars and scratchy blankets.  
  
The sky is hot, like fireworks.  
  
~*~ End ~*~  
  
You read, you feed. 


End file.
